Shertanic
by GraySnowie
Summary: Sherlock boards the Titanic with his brother Mycroft and mother. What he doesn't expect is to find love with a third class dominatrix named Irene Adler.
1. The Drawing

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. And I used many, many quotes from the Titanic and Sherlock scripts, none of which I own. **

Brock Lovett threw his hands up in exasperation. He was sure, so sure, that he would find the rare blue diamond necklace, the Heart of the Ocean, in that vault. He made a fool of himself in front of the press. But the expensive, time consuming voyage deep into the ocean was not in vain. They had retrieved a charcoal drawing of a naked woman, lying on a couch, wearing the famous piece of jewelry. In the corner was written: _The Woman -S.H. April 14__th__, 1912_

_The Woman. _What a vague title. Though the word "The" implied that the lady in the drawing was important to whoever S.H. was. More importantly, the drawing gave a clue to wear the missing necklace could be.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his living room, playing "My Heart Will Go On" on his violin while his granddaughter made lunch. He was barely listening to the television in the kitchen when he heard the word _Titanic _among the jumble of words the reporter was spewing out. Sherlock froze.

"What is it?" his granddaughter, Lizzie, asked.

"Turn that up." Lizzie obeyed and cranked up the volume to the television. Sherlock slowly walked over to it. A drawing appeared on the small screen. _His _drawing.

* * *

"Brock! There's a call for you," a crew member told him. Brock looked up, annoyed. He was poring over maps and diagrams all concerning the sunken ship.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" said Lovett.

"Trust me. You want to take this call," the crewmember said with a slight smile.

"This better be good." Brock followed the man to where the phone was.

"And you gotta speak up; he's kinda old, and his name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Great," Brock said sarcastically. He put the phone over his ear. "This is Brock Lovett. How may I help you Mr. Holmes?"

A deep, baritone voice replied. "I was just wondering if you had found the Heart of the Ocean yet?" Sherlock smirked. He knew that would get their attention.

Brock widened his eyes. "Alright you have my attention, Mr. Holmes. Can you tell me who the woman in the picture is?"

"But of course. I drew it after all. The woman in the picture is Irene Adler."

* * *

Sherlock flew to the ship where Brock Lovett was in a helicopter with Lizzie and his dog, Watson, in his lap. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. He hadn't been on a ship in quite a while. The helicopter landed and a crew of workers rushed over to help with the luggage.

"He's a fake, I tell you. If he really was on the Titanic, he would have to be over 100 by now."

Brock calmly replied to his friend. "Everyone who knew about that necklace should be dead on that ship. Yet he knows." Brock knew he was being a bit too hopeful, but really, what did he have to lose? This man was the only lead he had to finding the legendary necklace.

Sherlock was gently lowered down from the aircraft; the spinning propellers of the helicopter ruffled his loose, gray curls. Brock rushed over to shake his hand and introduced himself.

Once Sherlock had arrived at his room, he unpacked all his belongings. Brock walked in with a smile on his face. "Is the room alright?"

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose it'll do. Sorry for taking so long to unpack. I just have to have my pictures with me. And Watson of course," Sherlock explained, affectionately petting his dog.

"Can I get you anything? Is there anything you'd like?"

Sherlock brightened up at this question. "Yes. I would like to see my drawing."

* * *

Sherlock peered down at his drawing in the lab. The water gently lapped against the walls of the container the image was placed in. He never thought he'd be seeing it again. Not that it mattered. He had the image of it stored in his Mind Palace.

"This diamond," explained Brock, "would be worth more than the Hope diamond today. This picture was drawn before the day the Titanic sank, meaning the diamond had to have gone down with the ship. If you're who you say you are, the artist of this drawing, then that means the model was wearing the diamond the day before the Titanic sank. And that makes you, my new best friend." Brock showed Sherlock a few more items retrieved from the wreck, all of which Sherlock seemed to recognize.

"Are you ready to go back to Titanic?" he asked.

* * *

Sherlock sat in a small, dimly lighted room. A bearded man pointed to a screen showing animation of how the ship sank and slowly tried to explain what had occurred that day.

"Yes, yes. I know what happens. The ship is hit below the water line and the compartments flood. The water level rises and fills to the bulkhead. The bow goes down and the stern goes up. The ship can't support that kind of pressure so the ship splits in half. The stern splits from the rest of the ship and floats for a short time before finally sinking," Sherlock said in an exasperated tone. He was there. "I don't need some fancy demonstration telling me what I already know."

"Will you share your experience with us?" Brock gently asked.

Sherlock adjusted himself comfortably in his chair as Brock pulled out a recorder.

"Tell us, Mr. Holmes."

"It's been 84 years-"

"It's okay," Brock interrupted. "Just try and remember something. Anything. Anything at all."

Sherlock glared at him. "Do you want to hear this not Mr. Lovett," Sherlock snapped.

Brock gave a low chuckle and motioned him to continue on with the story.

"It's been…84 years. And I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called: The Ship of Dreams."


	2. This Ship Has Sailed

Sherlock stepped out of his car and looked up at the massive ship called Titanic for the first time. Mycroft got out after him and straightened his tie.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, I don't see what all the fuss is about. It's only 100 feet longer than the Mauretania."

"It's far more luxurious," Mycroft declared. "Really, brother mine, you are not easily impressed."

"Hmm. So they say this ship is unsinkable." Sherlock quickly saw that the Titanic was much overrated. He studied the build of the ship and came up with, so far, 12 scenarios in which the ship would sink.

"That's right. God himself couldn't sink this ship."

"Really Mycroft. You are much too easily impressed," Sherlock said before turning away. He headed to the ship with the poise and grace he was brought up with. But every step he took towards the massive ship was heavy and forced. He wanted to turn around and run.

* * *

The old Sherlock's gaze was distant, as if he wasn't really in the room and could actually see the Titanic at the dock in all its glory. "It was the ship of dreams…to everyone else. To me it was a slave ship, dragging me to America in chains to an utterly _boring _life. Pretending to be civil to a bunch of simple-minded, vain fools who couldn't think for themselves. Outwardly, I was everything a well brought up young man should be. Inside, I was screaming, forced to obey the social norms and trying my best not to upset mother."

* * *

Irene Adler dressed while the man she just shagged still lay in bed, half-asleep. She ran a hand through her disheveled hair before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her prize from the night: a Titanic ticket. Her eyes glowed as she took it in. This would be the adventure of a lifetime. The man glanced over at her and checked his watch.

"Not to spoil your mood or anything. But Titanic is leaving for America. In five minutes."

Irene's jaw dropped.

"You bloody arse!" Irene screamed in frustration. She grabbed her bag and sprinted out the door. She ran through the crowds, shoving slow-moving people out of her way. One of the officers on the ship was detaching the last ramp.

"Wait, wait! I'm a passenger!" Irene yelled, waving her ticket in the air.

"Have you been through the inspection queue?" the officer questioned.  
"Yes of course," Irene lied, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Right. Come aboard."

Irene quickly disappeared into the quarters after the officer checked her ticket. She had snatched it back as soon as he wrote down the name. Hopefully he hadn't noticed that it was a man's name on the ticket…

She made her way up to the deck and found spot on the rail. The passengers around her were screaming their goodbyes at the top of their lungs and waving their arms in the air like they were having muscle spasms. Irene just merely stared down at the crowd below her. She felt a small pang of loneliness, despite being surrounded by dozens of people. There was no one for her to say goodbye to.

* * *

Sherlock stood alone in the patio, admiring his recently purchased paintings. He heard a clunk on wood. Without turning his head, he could tell that Mycroft just entered the room.

"Those mud puddles were certainly a waste of money."

"You're wrong," said Sherlock. "The use of color, the exquisite detail, is all fascinating."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What was his name again?"

"Picasso."

"He'll never amount to anything, trust me. At least they were cheap," Mycroft said before walking away. Sherlock took a deep breath. The room suddenly seemed suffocating. He was filled with a self-loathing. Why did he put up with this? His life was meaningless, utterly boring. His teeth clenched and his hands balled up into fists.

* * *

"There was a woman by the name of Margaret Brown. Her husband had struck gold someplace out west, and she was what brother called 'new money'. She was quite large, and the other rich simpletons in the higher class secretly detested her for her loud and boisterous attitude. I, however, secretly liked her. She could actually say what was on her mind without fear of other's opinions," the old Sherlock said.

* * *

Sherlock and his family were sitting with others of importance. He reached for his cup of tea and slurped it loudly on purpose. He smacked his lips before setting it back down on the saucer. Mycroft shot him a warning look. A look Sherlock was all too familiar with.

Mr. Ismay introduced Mr. Andrews. "Mr. Andrews, our master shipbuilder, designed her from the keel plates up."

Mr. Andrews seemed uncomfortable with the attention. "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is…willed into solid reality."

Margaret scoffed. "Why're ships always bein' called 'she'? Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage? Just another example of the men settin' the rules their way."

Sherlock silently chuckled at her comment and lit a cigarette. His mother, Catherine Holmes, looked over at her son in light concern.

"Careful, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to…relapse," Catherine gently reminded.

"He knows," said Mycroft. He took the cigarette from him and stubbed it out. Sherlock concealed his growing annoyance. Margaret could see the tension between the three and tried to change the subject.

"Hey, who came up with the name Titanic? You, Mr. Ismay?"

"Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and safety-"

Sherlock interrupted. "Do you know of Dr. Freud? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ismay."

Margaret and Mr. Andrews stifled their laughter. Catherine looked mortified at her son's behavior. Mycroft gaped at him.

"My God, Sherlock, what's gotten into—"

Sherlock stood up. "Excuse me." He stalked away. Mycroft turned back to the others at the table.

"I do apologize."

* * *

Irene sat on a bench in the lower class deck, stretching and bathing in the sun. A man took a seat beside her and scowled as he saw a crewmember walking three dogs around the deck.

"That's typical. First class dogs come down here to take a shit."

Irene blearily opened her eyes. "That's so we know where we rank in the scheme of things."

"Like we could forget," scoffed the man.

Irene looked across the deck and saw something that caught her eye. At the railing of B deck stood Sherlock. Judging by his clothes, he was loaded, but judging by the way he held himself, he was deeply unhappy. He was frustrated, sad, and isolated. Sherlock took off his silly suffocating bowknot white scarf, tossing it and letting it fly away with the wind, where it eventually landed in the ocean. Irene smiled. _That's better, _she thought. Now if he would only take off the rest of his clothes… The man next to Irene held out his hand to shake.

"I'm Tommy Ryan." She didn't notice his greeting. Tommy turned to see what she was gawking at. Sherlock suddenly turned his head and looked directly at Irene; she had been caught staring, but she still didn't look away. Their eyes met across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds. Mycroft walked up to his brother and tried to take his arm to lead him back to everyone else. Sherlock jerked his arm away and they argued heatedly. Sherlock stormed away and Mycroft chased after him.

"Forget it," Tommy commented, reading her thoughts. "You'd as like have angels fly out o' yer arse as get next to the likes o' him."


	3. The Jump

Sherlock sat at a dining table, staring at his plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around him. Even though there were dozens of people in the room, he felt alone. Mycroft and Catherine were laughing at something some stuck-up duchess said.

* * *

_I saw my whole life as if I'd already lived it… an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches…always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared…or even noticed._

* * *

Sherlock excused himself from the table, pushing his chair back as he got up. He hurriedly left the room and walked along the corridor. A steward coming the other way greeted him. Sherlock was perfectly composed and gave him a slight nod and smile. As he walked along his façade fell. He was angry, furious, shaking with emotions he didn't understand: hatred, self-hatred, desperation. He wasn't quite sure where he was going, but it had to be someplace vacant, where he could be alone.

Irene was lying on one of the benches, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the stars. Hearing something, she turned as Sherlock ran up the stairs and to the stern rail. He didn't notice her in the shadows. He stared down at the massive propellers 60 feet below him, with angry thoughts running through his mind. He didn't want to go on, to constantly listen to his brother's relentless voice telling him what path to walk. He didn't want to see the disappointment on his mother's face as he failed to live up to the duties of the second Holmes son. He didn't want to attend any more dinner parties, pretending to be civil and having tedious conversations about the weather, the stocks, this duchess and that duke. Sherlock just wanted it to end. He unsteadily climbed over the railing.

_This can't be good. _Irene silently got up from the bench and moved closer to him.

"Don't do it," she cautioned.

Sherlock whipped his head around at the sound of her voice, surprised. "Stay back! Don't come any closer!"

Irene smirked, clearly not believing him. She stepped closer, indicating that she was going to throw her cigarette in the ocean. She stepped close to the rail and flung it into the sea. "No you won't."

Sherlock looked at her, bewildered. "What do you mean no I won't? Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me."

Irene offered her hand. "Come on, I'll help you over the rail."

Sherlock turned away from her and looked back to the black expanse of sea. "You're distracting me. Go away."

"I can't," she protested. "I'm involved now. If you let go I have to jump in after you."

"Don't be absurd. You'll be killed."

"I'm a good swimmer."

Irene took off her jacket, then boots.

"To fall alone would kill you."

"It would hurt, certainly, but it wouldn't kill me. To be honest, I'm a lot more concerned about the water being so cold." She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it on the ground. Irene was taking off much more clothes than necessary.

"How cold?" asked Sherlock uncertainly.

"In Wisconsin, I went ice-fishing with my dad. Ice-fishing is where you chop a hole in the-"

"I know what ice-fishing is!"

Irene laughed. "Sorry. Just…you look more like an indoor kind of man. Anyways, I went through some thin ice, and the cold hit me like a thousand knives all over my body."

She unlooped her belt, dropping it where her other garments were. Sherlock turned around to look at her. She was only wearing her undergarments. _The immodesty. _

"You're insane."

"That's what everybody says. But with all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship. I only took off these clothes in precaution of having to jump in after you. Hurry and climb back over the rail sir, before someone sees me like this," she coaxed. She stepped closer and held her hand out to him. Sherlock stared at the mad woman for a long time.

"Alright." Sherlock climbed over the rail and took her extended hand.

"I'm Irene Adler."

"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He slipped on his tailcoat and fell on top of Irene. She let out a yelp of shock. _He's so heavy, _Irene thought. _In a good way. _The quartermaster heard her cry and ran out with a small crowd of people, including Mycroft and his mother. Sherlock hurriedly got off of Irene, revealing the rest of her body, dressed in only undergarments. Gasps resonated throughout the crowd.

"Oh my goodness brother!" cried Mycroft. He turned toward Irene, furious. "How dare you try and seduce my brother like that!"

"Now, now," said Sherlock. "No need to start jumping to conclusions. It was an accident really."

"An accident?" scoffed Mycroft.

"Yes. It was…stupid really. I was leaning over and I slipped. I was leaning over to see the…propellers. And I slipped and I would have gone overboard if Ms. Adler were not here. She grabbed my hand and helped me over the railing. I slipped on my tailcoat and I fell on top of her." While Sherlock told his story, Irene stealthily put on her jacket, covering most of herself up.

Mycroft sighed, seeming to have forgotten that Irene was dressed so inadequately. "Really brother mine, you do have to be more careful."

The master at arms turned to Irene. "Was that the way of it?"

Sherlock looked at Irene, begging her with his eyes to not say what really happened.

"Yes of course. That was pretty much what had happened," Irene said with feigned innocence.

Lady Catherine hugged her son. "Let's get you in, Sherlock. You're freezing." Mycroft followed them without a second thought for Irene. The quartermaster stopped Mycroft.

"Perhaps a little something for the girl?"

"Oh, right. A twenty should do it."

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to his brother. "Is that the going rate for saving your one and only brother?"

"Sherlock is displeased. Mmm…what to do?" Mycroft turned back to Irene. "I know. Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow, to regale our group with your heroic tale?"

"Sure," agreed Irene, bemused.

"Good. It's settled then." Mycroft walked away with the rest of the group. Irene addressed Mr. Lovejoy, a close friend of Mycroft's. "Can I bum a cigarette?" Mr. Lovejoy looked at her disapprovingly but handed her one anyway.

"Interesting that the young gentleman had slipped so suddenly and you still had time to take off your shoes," he remarked before turning away and joining the others.

* * *

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	4. Heart of Ice

Sherlock strided into his room, his head swirling with thoughts. Perhaps he didn't _really _want to die. If it wasn't for that strange woman he would be swimming with the fishes by now. He absentmindedly reached his hand in his coat pocket and was surprised to find a note there. He unfolded it, wondering who could have placed it there. It read:

"Till the next time, Mr. Holmes." _Irene,_ he thought. Secretly, he felt quite glad for the notes. His good mood disappeared when Mycroft walked in, unexpectedly tender.

"I know you've been melancholy, and I don't pretend to know why."

Sherlock ignored him. Mycroft took a small box out of his coat, hoping that what was inside would cheer him up.

"Let's do deductions," Mycroft offered. He opened the box and revealed a necklace. It was huge with a glittering blue stone. He tossed the necklace to Sherlock, who caught it easily.

"I'm busy," Sherlock declared.

"Oh, go on. It's been an age," Mycroft coaxed.

Sherlock sniffed the jewel. "I always win."

"Which is why you can't resist."

Sherlock turned away. "I find nothing irresistible about a 56 carat blue diamond cut in the shape of a-" He stopped when he noticed Mycroft's widening smile. "Damn."

"Go on."

Sherlock held the necklace millimeters from his eye, inspecting the small details and imperfections of the piece of jewelry, trying to determine its age. "It's slightly over 200 years old. Which is around the time of the French Revolution…?" Realization dawned on him. "This is…Le Coeur de la Mer!"

"Yes, the Heart of the Ocean. That took you long enough. It was once worn by Louis the Sixteenth, and it was cut into a heart shape after the French Revolution."

"Why do you have this?"

"It's for royalty. And our family is royalty. Our power, our riches. There's nothing we can't get, nothing we can't do if we put our minds to it."

"I see…so you just bought the diamond to show others how powerful the Holmes family is." Sherlock handed the necklace back to him. Mycroft didn't take it.

"Sherlock…you've been the black sheep of the family for so long, silently refusing your birthright and title. Take the necklace; it is a symbol of our wealth and supremacy. You need to accept it." Mycroft shoved the large black velvet jewel case at Sherlock and left the room. Sherlock glared at the place where his brother was standing just a moment before. He put the jewel back in its case and locked it in the family vault. To Sherlock, that necklace was not a symbol illuminating the greatness of the Holmes family. It was merely a cold stone, a heart of ice.

* * *

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	5. Brainy is the new sexy

The next morning, Sherlock woke up, feeling oddly refreshed and actually looking forward to what the day would bring. He got up and dressed himself, preparing to go for a stroll on the deck. He reached for his coat when he saw a flash of white in the pocket. Another note.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." He stared at it for a long time, and then looked around the room suspiciously. She must have come in the night. He placed the recent note where the other one was, in the vault.

He walked out of the quarters and into the sun. He stepped over to the gate that led down to third class and unlatched it. The third class deck was a loud, boisterous place. There were mothers with their babies, fathers with their cigarettes, and children running around and shouting in several different languages. He spotted Irene idly chatting to Tommy Ryan. The hubbub of activity halted and everyone stopped to stare at the high class gentlemen making his way towards Irene. She stood up to greet him, smiling.

"Hello Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you?" she inquired with a twinkle in her eye.

"Could I speak to you in private?" he asked with a monotone voice.

"Of course. After you."

They walked up the stairs together and emerged onto the first class deck side by side. They passed people lounging and talking in chairs, some of whom glanced curiously at the odd couple. Irene felt only slightly out of place in her clothes. They were both awkward for different reasons.

"Is there a reason you called me out here Mr. Holmes?"

He chose not to say anything about the notes. "I…I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back, but for you discretion."

Irene smiled. "No problem. Discretion is…necessary for what I do."

Sherlock puzzled over her words for a few seconds. Discretion was necessary for what she does? The other night, she was quite willing to take off her clothes, and even spoke to him in a slightly seductive manner.

"Are you…a call girl? A hooker?"

Irene laughed. "There are many names for what I do. But I prefer the term 'dominatrix'. I provide, shall I say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. Professionally, I am known as The Woman. That doesn't bother you does it, Mr. Holmes?"

Strangely enough, it didn't. "No," he replied. "A power playing dominatrix. Don't people want your head?"

"Yes. But I have some insurance. Some recordings and naughty photos of men in compromising positions tucked away in my safe."

"I know what you must be thinking. Poor little rich boy. What does he know about misery?"

She looked up at him, admiring his features. "That's not what I was thinking. What I was thinking was…Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "It was them, it was their whole world. And I was trapped in it, like an insect in amber. I just had to get away, I ran, and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship. Before I even thought about it, I was over the rail. I was so furious. I was such an utter fool."

"That penguin last night, is he one of them?"

"Penguin? Oh, you mean Mycroft. Yes he is one of them."

"He seemed quite fond of you. Is he your boyfriend? I wouldn't mind. I've seen that kind of thing many times before."

Sherlock shuddered in horror. "He's my brother." They continued walking in comfortable silence. Sherlock spoke up, feeling comfortable with Irene. "There was this one time, when I was helping with a case, I didn't feel so restricted, and I felt alive trying to solve the puzzle. A man came to our home, his name was Phil. His car had broken down on near our premises. He told his story to us. He tried to start his car for the umpteenth time, but it still refused to start. He said he looked around and saw a hiker with a red jacket standing at the edge of a stream with his back to the road. He turned back to his car and tried to start it again and then it loudly backfired. Phil looked back towards the stream and saw that the man was now lying on the ground. He ran to the hiker, who had fallen onto his back. There was a lot of blood underneath the back of his head. Phil saw our home in the distance and ran for help. We called the police and I went with them to inspect it. I could see that the man wasn't shot. He was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which disappeared along with the killer, according to the police officers. They suspected Phil."

"Did you suspect Phil?" she inquired.

"Of course not. Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police? The police suspected that Phil was just trying to be clever and that it was over-confidence. Phil was morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own with the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy. He clearly wasn't an audacious criminal mastermind," he informed.

Irene smiled to herself; she had never seen Sherlock so excited before, there was excitement in his eyes and eagerness in his voice. Irene looked at him admiringly. "You figured all that on your own? Brainy _is_ the new sexy. Okay, tell me. How was he murdered?"

"He wasn't," Sherlock said smugly.

"You don't think it was murder?"

"I know it wasn't."

"How?"

"Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart, and one car. The driver's trying to fix his engine, getting nowhere. And the hiker's taking a moment, looking at the sky. Watching the birds? Any moment now, something's going to happen. What?"

"The hiker is going to die."

"No, that's the result. What's going to happen?" he asked persistently.

"I don't understand."

"Well, try to," he insisted.

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic. Stop boring me and think." He stared at her intently. "It's the new sexy," he said mockingly.

"The car's going to backfire."

"There's going to be a loud noise," he pointed out.

"So, what?" she questioned.

"Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything." Sherlock's face was alight was excitement. Irene and Sherlock suddenly ran into his mother, Lady Catherine, and Margaret Brown. The enthusiasm slipped from Sherlock's face and his face was once again perfectly composed, betraying no emotion.

"Mother, may I introduce Irene Adler, The Woman who saved me," putting extra emphasis on the words "The Woman." This joke was not lost on Irene, and she stifled a laugh.

"Charmed, I'm sure," spoke Lady Catherine.

Old Sherlock: "The others were gracious and curious about the woman who'd saved my life. But my mother looked at her like an insect. A dangerous insect which must be squashed quickly."

A bugler sounded the meal call. Lady Catherine politely smiled at Irene and turned her attention to her son. "Let's go prepare for dinner, darling." Sherlock walked away with his mother and said over his shoulder, "See you at dinner, Irene."

Margaret regarded Irene. "Do you have the slightest comprehension of what you're doing?"

"Not really," she lied. It was not her first time hanging with the upper class. She had done it countless of times before, entertaining the young men at night and coaxing their secrets out of them. Then, of course, blackmailing them later by threatening to tell the world if they did not do whatever she demanded.

"Well, you're about to go into the snake pit. I hope you're ready. What are you planning to wear?"

Irene hadn't thought about that. She thought of her wardrobe. She had many…interesting outfits there for her occupation, including chic, expensive looking outfits for entertaining the upper class. But she didn't have time to pack for the voyage. She looked down at her clothes, then back up at Margaret.

"I figured."


	6. Dinner

As Sherlock walked back to the first class quarters, he excused himself to go to the restroom. In truth, he just wanted to check the note he was expecting in his pocket away from the prying eyes of his mother.

"I'm not hungry, let's have dinner."

Molly's clothes were strewn all over her room and bed. "Luckily I packed my old clothes, my very old clothes." She grimaced, comparing the time when she was less than 200 pounds to now. Irene stepped out from behind a folding screen in a black dress that complimented her figure.

"My, my, my…you shine up like a new penny." Irene gave a forced smile. That woman had no idea how often Irene "shined up" for her clients. Perhaps she could show Margaret one day…

They walked together to the First Class Entrance. Chandeliers, twinkly lights, polished floors. Irene was impressed. A steward opened the door for them. Irene nodded to him, adding just the right amount of arrogance to blend in. She left Margaret talking to a snobby duchess and entered the A deck by herself. Mycroft walked down the stairs with his mother on his arm. Both of them didn't recognize Irene. Lady Catherine nodded to her, a greeting from one lady to another. Irene nodded back, amused. Just behind them was Sherlock in evening attire. He regarded her with surprise and wonder. Sherlock took her gloved hand and softly kissed it.

"Mycroft, mother, surely you remember Irene."

Mycroft and Lady Catherine were caught off guard. "Ms. Adler! I didn't recognize you!" exclaimed Mycroft.

"Amazing," stated Lady Catherine. "You could almost pass for a duchess."

The party made their way to the reception room for dinner. Margaret walked up beside Irene.

"Ain't nothin' to it, is there?"

Irene politely nodded.

"Remember, the only thing they respect is money, so just act like you've got a lot of it and you're in the club."

Irene gave a fake gracious smile to her. She didn't need any warning. She knew exactly how to play the part and fool the rich snobs. Margaret scurried away and joined a throng of woman. Sir Cosmo walked up to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, she is splendid. You're a lucky man." Irene smiled politely at him and the man left as quickly as he came. Sherlock brushed his lips on Irene's ear and whispered to her.

"He's having-"

"An affair. It was quite obvious really," she stated.

* * *

Irene, Sherlock, and the others sat at a white-clothed table in the dining saloon.

"Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Ms. Adler. I hear they're quite good on this ship," urged Lady Catherine.

Irene replied swiftly, unfazed. "The best I've seen, hardly any rats."

Mycroft joined addressed the rest at the table. "Ms. Adler is joining us from third class. She was of some assistance to my little brother last night." Several eyebrows rose.

"And where exactly do you live, Ms. Adler?" asked Lady Catherine.

"Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, I'm on God's good humor."

"You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?"

"Well…it's a big world, and I want to see it all before I go. You can't wait around, because you never know what hand you're going to get dealt next. My parents died in a fire when I was fifteen, and I've been on the road since. Something like that teaches you to take life as it comes at you. To make each day count."

Margaret raised her glass. "Well said."

The others at the table joined in and raised their glasses.

"Here, here," spoke a colonel.

Sherlock looked at Irene and raised his glass. "To making it count."

Mycroft regarded Irene with curiosity. "How is it you have the means to travel, Ms. Adler?" Sherlock choked on his wine. He hoped she wouldn't say prostitution.

"I…work my way from place to place. I won my ticket on Titanic here…" Irene paused for a brief moment, thinking. "…in a lucky hand at poker. A very lucky hand."

A waiter arrived with cigars on a wheeled cart. Mycroft stood up. "Well, join me for a brandy, gentlemen?" The men got up to leave. "Joining us, Sherlock?"

"No thanks. I'm heading back." He and Irene got up and parted at the door.

"Till the next time, Mr. Holmes." Irene turned and walked away without a glance back.


	7. Battle Dress

Sherlock pondered her words. "Till the next time, Mr. Holmes." Those were the words written on the first note she gave him. He checked his pocket. The note read:

"Mantelpiece."

He frowned. There were at least several dozen mantelpieces on the ship. Which one could be referring to? He hurried to his suite. She had snuck in there several times before; it was his mantelpiece she was probably referring to. Sure enough there she was. He walked over to her. She had helped herself and was looking through his many drawings.

"These are…good," she admitted. Sherlock said nothing and strided over to the family vault. Irene glanced up, curious. Sherlock opened the vault and took out the necklace and held it out to her.

"What is it? A sapphire?"

"A diamond. A very rare diamond, nicknamed the Heart of the Ocean."

Irene weighed it in her hand, appreciating its value.

"Will anyone bother us in here?"

"No. The cigars and brandy should keep everyone occupied."

"Then I want you to draw me. Wearing this." Sherlock nodded and went to get his charcoal and tools. She winked at him. "I'll be right back, need to get myself ready." Irene disappeared around the corner. She took off her dress once she was out of sight. She knew the perfect outfit to wear. She called it her battle dress.

Sherlock took off his coat and waited on a chair, sharpening his charcoal. He could hear Irene walking back to the room.

"Took you long en-" His voice failed him as he saw Irene standing at the doorway. She was stark naked, with the exception of the necklace gracefully hanging from her neck. His jaw dropped a little. She strutted over to the sofa and artfully arranged the pillows before lying down. She adjusted herself, trying to find the perfect pose.

"Tell me when it looks right to you."

Sherlock did not give anything away in his expression that Irene's nudity affected him, but on the inside it felt like his heart was beating over a hundred times a minute. "Bend your left leg a little, and lower your head. Eyes to me," he commanded. Sherlock proceeded to draw when an orgasmic sigh escaped from Irene's lips. He dropped his pencil and she chuckled. With gentle strokes, he sketched the outline of her body, then the couch.

"Keep still," he instructed. The longer he drew, the more he furrowed his brow and concentrated. Sherlock sat there for several hours, unaware of how much time had passed, only paying attention to the task at hand. Irene took the time to devour him with her eyes, always a coy smile dangling at the corners of her lips. Sherlock set down his pencil and stretched his fingers.

"Done."

* * *

_My heart was pounding the whole time. It was the most erotic moment of my whole life…up till then at least._

* * *

Sherlock signed the drawing with his initials, wrote the date, and titled the drawing "The Woman."

Irene looked over his shoulder and slid her arms around his neck with a mischievous look on her face. She was still naked. "Whatever shall we do now?" she purred. "I am at your command, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock handed her the drawing without looking at her, his expression was as stolid as ever.

"Put this and the necklace back in the safe, will you? And put some clothes on."

Irene pouted but did as he asked. She put the diamond and drawing into the vault and closed the door with a soft thud.


	8. My Measurements

The next day, Mr. Andrews led a small tour group from the bridge along the boat deck.

"Mr. Andrews," addressed Sherlock, "I did the sum in my head and with the number of lifeboats times the capacity you mentioned, there seems to be not enough boats for even half of the people on board."

"You miss nothing do you? Sleep soundly, Sherlock. I have built a good ship, strong and true. She's all the life boat you need."

Sherlock looked away into the distance. Since he first saw Titanic, he came up with seven additional scenarios in which the ship would sink. The group moved on and Sherlock lagged behind, walking slowly, deep in thought. He checked his pocket.

"I saw you on the deck today. You didn't see me." He placed the note back in his pocket.

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock walked back to their suite.

"It's really unfortunate, what happened to Mr. Graves."

"Mmm."

"Sherlock, are you even listening? Professionally, she is known as The Woman. She ended his marriage by having an affair with both participants separately. It's the second political scandal she's been involved with in the last year. Mr. Graves was a good friend of mine. This…Woman needs to be put down. She is a disturbance in our society. Unfortunately her real name is unknown."

Sherlock didn't say a word and walked back to his room, where he found a note tucked in his art supplies.

"I can see the lower deck and moon from my room. Work out where I am and join me."

Sherlock left his quarters straightaway and went back outside, heading towards where he knew Irene would be. He turned into the lower class lodgings and stepped into a dim, narrow hallway. He noticed that something was off. There were scuff marks along the bottom of the walls, made by someone being dragged backwards and kicking. Looking more closely at the wall, he saw a small indentation in the wallpaper. Putting a finger against the dent, his gaze became more intense as he deduced that it was formed by someone dragging their hand along the wall, clawing at it in a desperate attempt to stop themselves being hauled backwards. The depth of the nail mark can only have been made by someone with fairly long nails, someone like Irene. Slowly, he raised his head while he visualized her struggling as she was dragged down the hall to her room by a couple of men. The expression on his face went from calm and thoughtful to outright murderous. He walked a few more paces and stopped in front of a door marked 221b.

Sherlock opened the door and strided through with his hands clasped behind his back with a somber expressing. He assessed the situation. There were five men and one woman in the room. Irene was kneeling on the floor with a man behind her, holding a gun to her head. He noticed bruises on her wrist and that her shirt had been torn a little, revealing the skin underneath. He looked a little higher and saw a cut on her right cheek. His eyes flicked to the man in the center of the room. He had a silver ring on his third finger with blood on it. He looked directly at the man, but he wasn't deducing him; he was picking out target points on his body: carotid artery, skull, eyes, artery, lungs, ribs. Irene smiled in relief at his arrival.

Neilson, the man who seemed to be in charge, motioned to one of his men to point a gun at Sherlock. "Where is the safe?" He asked. The safe? Sherlock remembered Irene mentioning her insurance tucked away in a safe. He hadn't realized she brought it with her.

Neilson looked at him. "She says you know where the safe is." Sherlock stared at him blankly. Irene spoke to him with her eyes. _Think, _they said. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought of all the moments he and Irene had shared. He recalled one of the notes. _Mantelpiece. _What if she wasn't referring to the one in his room, but hers? He walked over and removed the painting, revealing the safe hidden behind it. There was a keypad.

"Now, sir, I want you to open the safe."

"I don't know the code."

"She said you do."

"She's the one who knows the code. Ask her."

Neilson glared at Irene with malice. "She also knows the code that automatically sets off an alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman." Neilson addressed the man behind Irene. "I've been instructed by my boss not to kill you, just to retrieve the evidence, but I will go to extreme measures if necessary. Mr. Archer, at the count of three, shoot her."

Irene widened her eyes. "I have copies!"

"I don't believe you."

"I instructed Kate to release them to the public if I ever came back dead."

"Shut up. One more word out of you, just one, and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." Neilson turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"I don't have the code."

"One."

"I don't know the code."

"Two."

"She didn't tell me. I don't know it!"

"Three."

"No, stop!" Sherlock turned to the keypad. It required a six digit code. His gaze became distant while his mind worked frantically to figure it out. He reached out a finger towards the keypad and punched the "3" and then "2". Hesitating for a moment, he then punched the "2" and "4". Pausing again, he hit the "3" and "4". The safe noisily clicked and unlocked. Irene grinned in satisfaction as Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes briefly.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please."

Sherlock glanced back at Irene who lowered her gaze to the floor and made a tiny jerk with her head. He turned back to the safe and twisted the knob that would open the door. Sherlock pulled it open and ducked his head down to the fireplace. Inside the safe, a tripwire attached to the door tugged on the trigger of a pistol that was aimed straight out of the safe. The gun fired and hit one of the men in the chest. Blood darkened his shirt and he crumpled to the ground. Irene spun around and savagely elbowed her guard in the groin. Sherlock grabbed Neilson's pistol and smashed the butt end across his face. Mr. Archer crumpled from Irene's blow. There were still two other armed men in the room. Irene shut the door to her safe, grabbed Sherlock's hand, and they sprinted out of the room.

"After them!" Neilson cried angrily. All the men, excluding the one that was shot in the chest, rushed out after them. Sherlock looked back. Neilson was closest to them. They pushed open the door at the end of the corridor and were met with a breath of fresh air from the outside. Sherlock motioned for Irene to go down the stairs. He hid out of view behind the door. Neilson ran through it, not realizing that Sherlock was waiting for him. Sherlock grabbed Neilson and pushed him over the railing to the lower deck, where Neilson landed with a satisfying crunch. Sherlock glanced through the doorway. The other three men were hot on their trail. He ran down the stairs and caught up with Irene.

"You don't have copies, do you?"

"You know me too well, Mr. Holmes."

They ducked into an elevator. They saw the men running after them in the distance; they had hidden their guns. "Take us down. Quickly, quickly," Irene commanded to the operator. The man scrambled to comply. The men ran up just as the lift started to descend. The three men went onto the next lift.

"The key code to my safe," she said breathlessly. Sherlock was silent. Irene grins. "They were my measurements," she smirked. "You knew exactly where to look."

The lift opened and they walked out. From a corridor nearby, the men after them came out of another lift and spotted them. They charged toward Sherlock and Irene with glowering expressions. They ran into a nearby alley. There was only one door at the end of the hallway marked CREW ONLY. Irene flung it open. They entered a room with no way out but a ladder going down. Sherlock latched the deadbolt on the door behind them. They heard the men slamming against it. Irene descended down the ladder with Sherlock following her. Irene looked around. They were in the boiler room. There were roaring furnaces and workers covered in soot moving around. They ran the length of the room, dodging workers as they went. They opened another door, leading to the cargo of the ship. The room was cold; it was a drastic difference to the dripping heat of the boiler room. Irene spotted a touring car and climbed into the plush back seat, pulling Sherlock in with her. They breathed heavily and listened to the silence in the room, straining for any sounds that might indicate that the men have found them.

When all seemed safe, Irene turned to Sherlock and pushed him down into the seat cushions. She straddled him. Sherlock didn't need deducing to figure out what they were going to do in the car for the next few hours.

"Irene I—"

She held a finger up to his lips. "Oh, shush now. I'll do the talking." He stopped talking and looked at her, expectant. "So the car's about to backfire, and the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now, you said he could be watching birds but he wasn't, was he? He was watching another kind of flying thing. The car backfires and the hiker turns to look, which was his big mistake. By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead. What he doesn't see is what killed him because it's already being washed downstream, a boomerang. An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with: a boomerang. You got that from one look? Definitely the new sexy." Sherlock stared at her in admiration. She figured it out, yet she wasn't even there at the crime scene. "Now put your hands on me Sherlock."

* * *

**Polite criticism would be welcome and helpful. **


	9. The Promise of Love

Mycroft opened the family vault to retrieve the necklace but only found a drawing. He saw his brother's initials and the title of the picture: The Woman. Mycroft realized that Irene Adler was The Woman, the very same one who cause upheaval in the upper class society and destroyed his friend's marriage. Mycroft tensed up with anger. He had an idea of who took the diamond.

* * *

Sherlock and Irene left several clues of their time in the backseat of the car. For one, there was a handprint on the condensation of the window. Mycroft sent some of his men to see where his brother wandered off to. Two workers from the boiler room told the stewards where Sherlock and Irene went. The two stewards went to the cargo room and spotted the fogged up window of the car with Irene's handprint on it. They slowly approached the vehicle and one of the stewards whipped open the door.

"Gotcha!" But the back seat was empty.

Sherlock and Irene burst through a door onto the deck. Irene was breathlessly laughing. Her breath clouded the freezing air, but she hardly noticed the cold. Irene looked up at Sherlock, who silenced her with an intense, lustful look. Above them, the two lookouts heard the disturbance below and looked down to see two figures embracing.

"Look at that, would ya."

"They're a bloody sight warmer than we are."

"Well if that's what it takes for us two to get warm, I'd rather not, if it's all the same." They had a good laugh and resumed their lookout positions. Their expressions fell and the color drained out of their faces as they spotted a menacing shape in the distance. One man reached over and rang the lookout bell three times, then grabbed the telephone to call the headquarters. After a few seconds, someone picked up.

"Is someone there?"

"Yes. What do you see?"

"Iceberg right ahead!"

"Thank you." He hung up. The captain swiftly sent out instructions.

The engineers and greasers worked like madmen to close the steam valves and tried to get the propeller shafts to stop. The ship turned with agonizing slowness as it headed toward the iceberg. The ship hit it on its starboard bow with a sound like thunder. The ship's steel hull plates broke apart and rivets popped out.

Irene and Sherlock broke their embrace and looked up in astonishment as the iceberg sailed past, blocking the sky. Fragments broke off and they had to dodge to avoid large chunks of ice hitting them. Sherlock ran to the edge of the ship to look at the iceberg. He frowned in thought. _An iceberg that big…it had to have damaged the ship._ "Sherlock?" Irene said with worry. He shook his head. _No, no, no._

* * *

Tommy woke up from his nap. He climbed down from his bunk and his feet landed in a pool of water. He rushed out into the hallway to see rats running up to the upper levels of the boat. Stewards rushed along the corridor, handing out life jackets and giving instructions. Mycroft went up to one of the stewards.

"Get the master of arms! I've been robbed!"

In the boiler room, the workers scrambled to get up the ladders and away from the waist-deep, ice-cold water.

* * *

Sherlock and Irene went back to the first class foyer to find his mother. Mycroft and Lady Catherine were in the sitting room with the Master at Arms. Sherlock and Irene entered and Lady Catherine embraced her son, relieved to find him.

"Something serious has happened," proclaimed Sherlock.

"That's right," agreed Mycroft. "Two things dear to me have disappeared this evening. Now that one is back, I have a pretty good idea where to find the other." He looked at the Master at Arms. "Search her." The Master at Arms took off Irene's coat and searched the pockets.

Sherlock glared at him. "You can't be serious! We're in the middle of an emergency and you—"

The Master at Arms pulled out the Heart of the Ocean out of the pocket of Irene's coat.

"Is this it?" Sherlock was stunned.

"That's it." Mycroft declared. The Master at Arms handcuffed Irene. She said nothing and didn't resist. "She couldn't have," Sherlock said uncertainly. He remembered all the times he found notes in his coat pockets in the mornings. She could have easily broken into the vault too, she was clever, she could have figured out the combination. That and Irene didn't deny the charges. She looked to Sherlock for assistance. He looked away, hurt and betrayed. He couldn't look her in the eye. The Master at Arms took her away. Irene glanced over her shoulder and said sadly, "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft stared at his brother for a long time. "That's all it takes: one lonely naïve man, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special. The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption."

He and Lady Catherine left the room. Sherlock was left alone in silence.


	10. Mercy

The Master at Arms led Irene to a room near the bottom of the boat. There was an inch of water on the floor. He handcuffed her to a pipe and left. She could hear a plop in the water in the hallway. It was probably the key. She sighed. So this was how she was to die. _I suppose I deserve it. _At first, it was all just a great game to her, seducing the high class virgin. But he was brilliantly sexy and eventually got to her. She had stolen the diamond in the middle of the night after he drew her. But then he saved her, they had a fine time in that car, and everything changed. The water level was quickly rising. _Sentiment is a weakness._

* * *

Sherlock spotted Mr. Andrews in the crowd of people. "I saw the iceberg, and I see it in your eyes. Tell me the truth."

"The ship will sink. In an hour or so…all this…will be at the bottom of the Atlantic."

"My God," exclaimed Mycroft.

"Please tell only who you must, I don't want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly. Don't wait. You remember what I told you about the boats?"

Sherlock grimly nodded.

There was chaos and confusion on the deck. The crewmen started loading the boats with women and children. A small orchestra of violinists played a solemn piece. The narrow corridors were crowded with stewards trying to push their way through and people carrying suitcases and duffel bags.

Sherlock saw farewells taking place in front of him as the boats were being boarded. Lady Catherine gave her boys a quick kiss on the cheek before climbing on one of the boats. Mycroft glanced at his little brother; he had only a thin shirt on. He absentmindedly took off his coat and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders, forgetting that the Heart of the Ocean was still in the pocket.

Mycroft looked upon the chaos in disdain. "Will the lifeboats be seated according to class? I hope they're not too crowded—"

"Oh shut up!" Sherlock's outburst surprised his brother. He froze with his mouth open. "Don't you understand? The water is freezing and there aren't enough boats. Not enough by half. Half the people on this ship are going to die."

"Not the better half."

Sherlock thought of Irene, despite her betrayal. She was in third class. Mycroft tugged on his brother's arm. "Let's get on a boat now." Sherlock shrugged him off and walked away.

"Sherlock! Get on the boat!" He jumped in front of Sherlock to face him. "Where are you going? To her? Is that it? To cater to the whims of a thief? Some whore?"

"She's not a whore, she's a dominatrix!"

Mycroft clenched his jaw and viciously pulled Sherlock back to the life boats. Sherlock punched him in the face and Mycroft let go with a curse. Sherlock ran back into the crowds. He spotted Mr. Andrews.

"Mr. Andrews, thank God. Where would the Master at Arms take someone under arrest?"

"What? You have to get to a boat right away!"

"I'll do this with or without our help. But without will take longer," he insisted.

Mr. Andrews gave in. "Take the elevator to the very bottom, go left, down the crewman's passage, and then make a right."

Sherlock hurriedly thanked him and left. He pushed his way to the lift and forced the operator to take him down. He arrived at the proper floor. Water was gushing at his feet. He had to hurry. Sherlock ran out into the hallway and called Irene's name. Irene was sitting on a table dejectedly when she heard his familiar baritone voice call out for her. The water level was rising at an alarming rate. For once, Irene didn't feel her instincts of self-preservation kicking in. Sherlock had to leave and get to the boats this instant if he was to survive. She would play her role and force him to go back up without her. Sherlock located the room Mr. Andrews told him about and kicked in the door. Sherlock was surprised to find her glaring at him.

"What are you doing here? How pathetic," she sneered. "Finding out that I stole the necklace _after _we shagged was a big enough blow. And yet you're still here. It was just a game Sherlock." She was convincing, but Sherlock knew better.

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I said no. _Very _very close, but no. Your mission may have been to steal the diamond, but you got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"No such thing as too much."

He walked closer and looked down at her. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game; I sympathize entirely, but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?"

"You."

Irene smiled calmly. She had to wrap this up and get Sherlock out of here. "Oh dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the second son of the wealthy Holmes family?"

"No." He reached out and slowly wrapped his fingers around her left wrist. He leaned forward and brought his mouth close to her ear. "Because I took your pulse: elevated," he whispered. She thought back to when he led her to dinner, her hand in his. "Your pupils dilated." Irene remembered him drawing her. _Damn. _She shouldn't have given so much away. Irene looked up at him in admiration. _Clever, clever boy. _

"Tell me where the key is."

"He dropped it in the hallway. Right outside the door, to the right." Sherlock immediately turned and went out into the hallway. "It's too late; the water's probably washed it far away by now. Just leave!" she cried out after him. Sherlock intently thought. He considered the weight of the key, how fast the water level was rising, which direction the water came from and which way it was flowing. He walked several paces and reached down into the water where the key was most likely to be. He retrieved it and walked back to the room. Irene gaped at him.

"How did you find it so quickly?"

"Science of deduction." He unlocked her handcuffs.

"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."

"Twice." They stared at each other intently before leaving the room.


	11. Pandemonium

Sherlock and Irene ran through the hallways, searching for a way out. They came up a narrow stairwell but they were stopped by a small group pressed up against a steel gate. The steward was insistently telling everyone to go to the main stairwell and refused to open the gate.

"God damn it to Hell son of a bitch!" screamed Tommy. Irene tapped his shoulder and gestured to the bench bolted to the floor. He walked over and aggressively started pulling on it, with more men joining in as they noticed his efforts. Irene cleared a path for them as they wrenched the bench off the floor.

"Move aside! Quickly, move aside!" Tommy and the other men ran up the stairs and rammed it into the gate. It ripped loose and the crowd surged through.

* * *

The deck was in utter pandemonium as people tried to push through to get to the boats. Gunshots were being fired by the crewmen in a desperate attempt to restore order. Mycroft gave up on trying to find his brother. He spotted a young child, crying, without anyone claiming him. He was reminded of a young Sherlock. Without hesitation he scooped up the boy and walked to the officer in charge of the last boat.

"Any more women or children?!"

"Here's a child! I've got a child! Please…I'm all he has in the world."

The officer nodded curtly and allowed Mycroft and the boy on the boat. He sadly looked at the ship while the boat lowered. All he could do now was hope and pray that Sherlock made it safely on a boat.

* * *

Sherlock and Irene emerged onto the deck, amidst the commotion and disarray. There were no more lifeboats to be seen. Irene bit her lip, frowning. She should have done better to make Sherlock leave her earlier. He noticed her concern and guessed her thoughts.

"It's too late now. And I don't regret my decision. We have to stay on the ship as long as possible. Let's see…now the ship was hit near the front bottom compartments, meaning that the stern will be the last part to sink. Let's head there." He grabbed her hand and they pushed through the panicking crowd. They struggled to climb higher as the angle of the boat increased. They passed hundreds of passengers clinging onto anything to keep from slipping into the water. They finally made it onto the stern rail and held onto it as the ship tilted further.

"How ironic. This is where we first met, and where we are to meet our doom," whispered Irene. The lights on the ship flickered, and then went out completely.

* * *

From the lifeboats, Mycroft looked onto the great ship of Titanic with dread. He watched in horror as the ship's structure ripped in half, all nine decks right to the keel.

* * *

The stern half of the ship fell backward onto the water so that it was level again. The gaping hole in the ship filled with water and the stern rapidly tilted up again. It went up, and up, and up, past 30 degrees, past 40 degrees, then past 60.

"We have to move." Sherlock climbed over the stern rail and helped Irene do the same. "Never thought I'd be climbing over this again…" They watched as people fell from the boat, flailing in a desperate attempt to grab something. The stern was now sticking straight up in the air, and it was rapidly sinking.

"When I say take a deep breath," Sherlock instructed, "take a deep breath and hold it." Irene nodded grimly. The deck below them disappeared and the plunge was gathering even greater speed.

"Now!"


	12. Warm in My Bed

**Thank you for reading thus far. I hope it wasn't too terrible. Enjoy the rest of the story.**

* * *

They plunged into the icy blackness of the water. Sherlock almost let go of Irene's hand, but her grip was surprisingly strong. Together, they kicked to reach the surface, where they were met by screaming, thrashing people. They swam away to a spot with slightly less people.

"Look for something floating. Some debris, wood, anything," Sherlock instructed.

"It's so cold."

"I know. I know. Help me, here. Look around." They both looked around to find anything to cling onto, but there was nothing but people.

"Damn it!" Sherlock shouted in frustration.

"It's okay." Irene moved closer to him and wrapped herself in his arms. "I have you."

Sherlock looked around and assessed the situation. It was freezing. They probably had about ten, fifteen minutes max before they froze to death. And surely, no one from the escape boats would be coming back, for fear of being swamped. He turned back to Irene. She was shivering uncontrollably, her lips were blue and her teeth were chattering.

"It's getting quiet," she stated. Sherlock stared at her solemnly.

"I love you Irene." She frowned at him.

"No…don't you say your good-byes. Don't you give up. Don't do it," she pleaded.

Sherlock sighed, his breath clouding the air. "I'm so cold."

"You're going to get out of this. You're going to go on and you're going to make babies and watch them grow and you're going to die an old man, warm in your bed. Not here. Not this night. Do you understand me?"

"I can't feel my body."

"You must do me this honor. Promise me you will survive, that you will never give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless."

Sherlock was determined to be pessimistic. "We're going to die here. And no one's coming back to save us."

"Promise me," she said determinedly. "And never let go of that promise." Sherlock gave in and kissed her numb, white hands.

"I promise."

"Never let go."

"I promise. I will never let go, Irene. I'll never let go." They floated there with their foreheads touching. It was now quiet, except for the gentle lapping of the water.

* * *

A bright beam of light cut through the dark. The officer holding it shook. All he could see was floating white corpses. "We waited too long."

Sherlock sensed a disturbance and turned his head. There was a boat coming their way.

"Irene." He gently shook her. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. But she was not asleep.

"Irene," he said more desperately. The realization of her death went through him. All his hope left and he closed his eyes. There was no reason to even try.

His eyes suddenly snapped open. He made a promise. A promise he would keep, even if it haunted him for the rest of his life. His cried out to the officers on the boat, but they were too far to hear his weak cry. He unclasped his hands from Irene and kissed her on the forehead.

"I won't let go. I promise." He released her and she sank into the dark water. Sherlock struggled to swim a few feet to take the whistle of a nearby corpse. He put it to his mouth and blew into it with what little strength he had left. The sound pierced through the night. The men on the boat heard the noise and they rowed to where Sherlock was. They hauled him onto the boat and covered him with blankets as he slipped to unconsciousness.

* * *

The aged Sherlock ended his story. "Fifteen hundred people went into the sea when Titanic sank from under us. There were twenty boats floating nearby and only one came back. One. Six were saved from the water, myself included. Six out of fifteen hundred." The listeners looked at him with horror and awe. Lovett even forgot to ask about the diamond.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the deck of a rescue ship, the Carpathia, huddled in a blanket. Survivors wandered the deck, looking for loved ones. Mycroft searched for his little brother among the bleak faces. Sherlock sat sipping hot tea. Relief was evident on Mycroft's face as he spotted his brother.

"Sherlock! Mother and I have been looking for-" Sherlock held up a hand.

"Please don't. Don't talk. Just listen. We will make a deal, since that is something you understand. From this moment you do not exist for me, nor I for you. You shall not see me again. And you will not attempt to find me. In return, I will give you back this." He fished the Heart of the Ocean from his pocket. He fixed Mycroft with a cold and hard glare. "Is this in any way unclear?"

"Sherlock, as hard as it is for me to admit, you're precious to –"

"Jewels are precious." Mycroft could see that Sherlock was no longer the man he knew, weak and always following his and mother's orders. Even if he rejected the deal, Sherlock would still do he wanted and leave.

After a long beat, he said, "What do I tell mother?"

"Tell her that her son died with the Titanic."

"What will you do?"

"I will become a detective. I will help solve crimes. I will live in an ordinary flat. I will struggle to pay rent. I will live in recluse because I detest ordinary people. I'm sure mother would rather see me dead than living like that." Sherlock tossed him the diamond and turned to the rail, staring out into the ocean. After a moment, Mycroft walked up to him and slipped the necklace back into Sherlock's pocket.

"Rest assured. I'll keep my end of the deal."

* * *

"That was the last time I ever saw him. I do suspect that he sent people to check up on me every once in a while. He married, of course, and inherited his millions," the old Sherlock said. Brock Lovett spoke up. "We never found anything on Irene. There's no record of her at all."

"No, there wouldn't be, would there? And I've never spoken of her until now, not to anyone." Sherlock turned to his granddaughter. "Not even your grandmother, Molly." He stroked his dog's fur. "Not even to Watson."

"Your dog?" Lizzie asked confusedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course I named my dog Watson after someone dear to me." He yawned. "I think I'll be heading to bed now." Lizzie immediately got up and wheeled him out. She had a newfound respect for her grandfather.

He climbed into the bed with the slow grace of an old man. Lizzie hovered at the door.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"I'm fine." He intensely looked at her in the eye for a few seconds. "Thank you." She smiled at him and left.

Sherlock waited exactly one hour before getting back up out of bed. There was something he had to do. It was the reason he even came here in the first place. He walked outside in the cold night air. He stepped over to the railing, barefoot. The night was clear; millions of stars could be seen, just like that night. Sherlock took the Heart of the Ocean out of his pocket. He peered down into the water, where the wreckage of Titanic was. "It always looked best on you, Irene," he said before flinging the necklace into the ocean. There was a soft _plop _that disturbed the otherwise silent night. He hobbled back to his room, back to the warmth of his bed. He settled into the comfort of the blankets and sheets. _There, _he thought to Irene, _I've kept my promise. I've lived a full life, and I will now die an old man, warm in my bed. _


End file.
